I dont have much to worry about luckily. These folk seem nice enough. I still hate the cold. Nights are bad and the days ain’t much better. But it’s still my home and I’m making do with what I’m given. I hope the gang’s still okay. Might set out and search for them soon lest the weather picks up again.


Arthur paused in his writing, shutting the tattered journal he had been scribbling his thoughts in and shoving it back into his satchel. He leaned himself forward, soaking all the heat he could into his cold body from the little fire he had started not too long ago. He was alone-- at least for now—thinking about Dutch and Hosea and John and everyone else he had unwillingly left behind weeks ago. Getting separated from the gang had never been his intention, but life was a cruel mistress. They’d been traveling through the mountain ranges—same ones that dotted the horizon from Snowbound’s camp. A couple of bandits that had been tailing them finally got the better of ‘em one night and a fight broke loose. Arthur got himself separated through the commotion—headed down south while the others fled west in a last-minute attempt to drive the bandits away. Hours later, Arthur was huddled in the snow next to two dead bodies, shaking and half awake. He only survived because of Snowbound; the good folk managed to drag him back to camp, nurse him up, and offer to let him stay. It was with a heavy heart that he had to agree. Leaving the gang behind wasn’t something he wanted to do, but what other option did he have? It was a contest of staying here or going back out there and risking his life a second time. Morgan would’ve done it if the little voice in his head hadn’t held him back. Don’t go. You ain’t much use to them when you’re dead, huh? And so he stayed.

The whitetailed buck pulled the wool blanket around his shoulders closer. He exhaled, watching the white wisps of his breath trail up into the sky before staring back into the flames of the fire, a calmness washing over him.